KeepingFaithCole (14 page)

“Tom
Henderson! How am I supposed to think with you doing that?” Lucille laughed and
shoved him away.

“No
need to think. Just say yes.”

“Oh,
all right. Yes, I’ll do it. I’ll visit your mother. I’ll stay with her during
the day, and I’ll do whatever I can to help her while she’s recuperating.”

Tom
smiled. Another moment of triumph. Lately, he seemed to be having a lot more of
those, and he liked the way it felt.

* * * *

At the
end of the day, Lucille posted the
CLOSED
sign in the shop window, locked the door, and walked away with no idea when
she might return. She doubted anyone in Sunset would notice—or care—whether she
opened the dressmaking establishment again or not. Like Mama said, they could
do sewing and mending at home, and now, she’d be earning a few pennies by
helping out with Charlotte. Whatever Tom paid her would go toward settling
accounts with her suppliers.

As
promised, she visited his mother the next day. She did not bring Faith with
her.

“A bit
too chilly this morning to get her out,” Lucille explained when Charlotte
inquired. She sat stiffly at the woman’s bedside, unsure what was expected of
her. She and Charlotte had nothing in common. What were they supposed to talk about?

“Tell
me about Faith,” the woman suggested. “Is she turning over now? You are keeping
an eye on her, I hope. You don’t want her rolling off the bed, you know.”

The
woman’s obvious interest in her grandchild’s well-being and development set
Lucille’s mind somewhat at ease. Although Charlotte had lived a life of shame
and sin, she did possess a loving, caring heart. If given enough kindness from
others, shown even a modicum of respect, she might yet find her own inherent
goodness. At heart, everyone had an inherent goodness. Lucille clung
tenaciously to that belief.

The
following day, Lucille came alone again. Faith had been fussing the night
before. Probably best not to get her out. Charlotte listened and nodded in
agreement, but her lips thinned into a hard line. Her disappointment showed.

The
third day and again on the fourth, Lucille found other reasons not to bring
Charlotte’s grandbaby with her. The woman’s displeasure grew, but Lucille paid
no heed to it. Faith had been entrusted to
her
.
She would continue to do what she felt best.

Their
mornings and afternoons together were passed in feeble attempts at
conversation, punctuated with sullen silences. Clearly, Charlotte didn’t want
Lucille there, which made them even. The last thing Lucille really wanted was
to spend even a single moment keeping the disagreeable woman company, but
service to others was a fundamental tenet of being a good Christian. Of course,
honesty was also a fundamental tenet of Christianity, but Lucille chose to
overlook that fact.

The
real reason she was there, of course, had nothing to do with serving others,
and everything to do with her growing interest in the woman’s son. She wanted
to please him, wanted to know she was woman enough to win the affection of a
man like Tom.

While
she was visiting with his mother, they had resumed his lessons. Each evening
Lucille eagerly awaited his return, then sat in the little parlor with him,
patiently sounding out words as he ran a big, callused finger along the lines
of print, reading the headlines from the weekly
Sunset Gazette.
She sometimes sensed an uneasiness from Charlotte,
as though the woman didn’t quite approve of Lucille’s determined efforts to
help Tom. She chose to ignore those feelings.

By the fifth
day, Charlotte was well on her way to making a full recovery from her bout of
pneumonia. Although still a bit weak, she was out of bed, moving around the
cabin when Lucille arrived. As on each previous day, her disappointment showed
when she opened the door.

“Mama
said maybe I should wait another day before I bring Faith. Since you’ve been
ill, you know. We wouldn’t her to take sick.”

“No, of
course not.” She sighed and nodded. “You’re probably right, but you’ll bring
her tomorrow, won’t you? As you can see, I’m feeling fine now, back on my feet.
I want to see her.” Charlotte’s eyes glowed whenever she spoke of her
grandchild. “I’ve got lots of quilts I can lay out on the floor. And I made
something for her.” The woman ducked into the back bedroom, returning a few
moments later with a tiny rag doll. “I used to make dolls like this for Sally.”
She pressed her lips together and looked directly into Lucille’s eyes. “I know
I wasn’t a very good mother, but just so you know, Miss McIntyre, I did my
best. I’d like to think that counts for something.”

* * *
*

The
following morning, Lucille approached the cabin with trepidation. She knocked
on the door, already rehearsing what she would say.

“Where’s Faith?” Charlotte cracked open the door enough
to peer out, but not enough to let Lucille step inside.

“She was still sleeping when I left.” The lie came out
as smooth as spun silk. “I didn’t want to disturb her.”

The door didn’t budge. Charlotte squinted against the
harsh rays of the morning sunlight. Her brow furrowed. “You said you’d bring
her. You promised to bring me my grandbaby.”

“Are you going to let me in?”

“All right.” She swung the door open and stepped aside.
“Lucille, you can stop lying to me. You’ve got no intention of bringing Faith
with you. I know that.” She gestured toward the table. “Please, sit down.”

Surprised by the woman’s kindness, Lucille took a seat.
“Charlotte, I—”

The woman didn’t let her finish. “It’s because of how I
acted that day at the mercantile. I don’t blame you,” she added.

“I’m glad you understand.”

“I baked sweet rolls this morning.” Charlotte held the
pan out to Lucille. “Help yourself.”

“Thank you.”

“I fixed a pot of tea. Would you like a cup?”

“Yes, please.”

The scene was surreal. For several moments, Charlotte
and Lucille chatted pleasantly. Seated across from one another, they might have
appeared to be good friends enjoying a morning cup of tea, had anyone stepped
in to see them.

“Tell me more about her, Lucille. Did you give her the
doll I made?”

“Yes. She loved it. Her eyes lit up and she got this
huge smile on her face.”

Charlotte listened with keen interest as Lucille shared
other anecdotes about the cherubic six-month-old. The woman smiled, brushed a
tear from her eyes, and showed the genuine concern any grandmother would
demonstrate.

Lucille responded to each of the woman’s questions with
a lilt in her voice. Honesty
was
a
good thing, she realized. Now that the air had been cleared between them, she
felt much more comfortable around Tom’s mother.

Maybe tomorrow she
would
bring Faith with her. Certainly, Charlotte deserved to see the child.

Lucille leaned back in her chair and clasped her hands
in her lap. “The sweet rolls were delicious, Charlotte, and you fixed a fine
cup of tea, as well. Would you like for me to clean up the kitchen for you? I
could wash the dishes, put things away in the cupboards, and sweep up the
floor.” She pointed a scolding finger toward the woman. “You’re supposed to be
resting, you know.”

“Supposed to be, yes, but I don’t always do what I’m
supposed to.” Charlotte laughed. “Can’t say that I’ve ever been too good at
following rules.”

“Rules have a purpose,” Lucille countered. “Without
them, society couldn’t function. We’d be reduced to nothing more than a band of
lawless heathens.”

At once, Charlotte’s hands tightened around the cup she
held, her tension so real it seemed to fill the air, engulfing both her and
Lucille.

She’d said something wrong, Lucille realized. She’d
somehow touched on something sharp and painful. Suddenly nervous, Lucille
fiddled with the pearl necklace at her throat. Imitation pearls, of course. She
could hardly afford the real thing. Her father had purchased a dozen of the
necklaces from a peddler passing through who’d brought them from the orient—a
dazzling display of the proper use of man’s intellect combined with the simple
beauty of nature. That was the spiel the salesman used. Pearls, he’d gone on to
explain, were looked upon as signs of wisdom, beauty, and purity. According to
the enterprising vendor, even the genius, Leonardo da Vinci declared that anyone
who wore pearls possessed virtue and truth.

Thoughts of her father filled Lucille’s mind now.
Suddenly her heart swelled with sorrow and tears flooded her eyes.

“What’s got into you now?” Charlotte asked. She shifted
about on her seat. Any sense of comfort or familiarity they’d established
between them had dried up and vanished, like morning dew disappeared in the
heat of the day.

“Memories, that’s all.” Uncertain how to proceed,
Lucille clutched at the pearls as if touching them might somehow impart the wisdom
she lacked. Her stomach churned as scenes of the past crept into her mind. “My
father,” she said in a strangled voice. “I miss him, you know.”

“How long’s he been dead?”

“Almost a year.” She lowered her gaze, glancing down at
the swirling floral pattern of her skirts. Shame overwhelmed her. She
should
be dressed in mourning clothes.
She
should
be honoring the man who’d
raised her, the man who’d taught her right from wrong. Instead, she’d allowed
Tom Henderson—no, rather, she’d allowed her own lustful desires—to dictate the
style she wore. A fine one she was to speak of rules! She’d broken one of the
most meaningful traditions that had ever existed. A frantic wail escaped her
throat. “A year in December,” she choked out. “I can’t bear to think of it.”

Growing more frantic by the moment, Lucille flew from
the chair. When she’d first arrived, she had placed her pocketbook on a small
table. Now, she dashed across the room, snatched it up, and rummaged inside,
desperately in need of the lavender-scented, lace-trimmed handkerchief she
carried. An expensive bit of frippery, a throwback to happier times.

“Get hold of yourself, girl.” Charlotte got to her feet.
Taller than Lucille by a good six inches, the woman’s presence alone was enough
to intimidate. Her strident voice, rough demeanor, and most of all, the
hardness in her eyes all worked to make her a formidable figure, an object to
be feared.

Lucille dabbed at her eyes with her handkerchief. She
hadn’t meant to lose control, but memories held such power—the power to reopen
all the old wounds, the power to take the sufferer back in time, back to those
most dreadful moments that marked the course of life.

“I’m sorry to be so emotional,” she said, unable to look
directly at Charlotte. Instead, she focused on the delicate lace of her
handkerchief. “You don’t understand,” she went on. “I was the one who found my
father. The one who found him dead.” She lifted her chin. Even though she
turned her face toward Charlotte, her eyes saw only emptiness as she stared
blankly ahead. “You have no idea how awful it was.” Her voice turned quiet, the
words coming out in a dull monotone. “I was so excited. Christmas was coming,
and I was going to the mercantile to help my father that afternoon. The store
would be filled with shoppers buying last-minute holiday gifts.” Her tongue
darted out to moisten her lips. Getting the words out of her mouth had become
difficult. “He was lying there, sprawled out on the ground in back of the store
with his neck broken. He’d fallen from the rooftop, you see. All he’d wanted
was to make the store look more festive. He must have lost his balance…lost his
footing…” Her voice trailed off as the awful scene replayed inside her head.
She twisted the lace-trimmed handkerchief.

Charlotte said nothing in response. The silence seemed
to have a heaviness about it, a sense of finality that frightened Lucille. She
blinked, bringing the older woman into focus, then gasped at the piercing blue
eyes that stared back. Charlotte’s eyes held no tears but were filled with
anguish, hatred, and a raw, aching bitterness unlike anything Lucille had ever
seen.

“Mrs. Henderson,” she whispered, shaken by the stillness
yet afraid to break it.

“Get out of my house.” Charlotte spoke at last, her
words clipped and curt.

“But—”

“Did you hear me? Get out of my house.” Charlotte turned
away and headed for the kitchen. Lucille watched in horror as the woman threw
open the cupboard and pulled out a bottle of whiskey. With trembling hands, she
filled a shot glass, then swallowed the contents down in a single gulp. “I
don’t want to hear your sob stories about your poor father.” The woman refilled
her glass, tipped it up, and reached for the bottle again. “Oh, how awful it
was to find him!” Her voice rose and fell in a slurred, sing-song mimicry of
Lucille’s earlier words. “What horrors you suffered.” She set the bottle down
with a thud, knocking plates and cups to the floor. “You want to know about
horror?” she asked, taking a menacing step toward Lucille. “You want to know
how it feels to find not only your father but your mother dead, too? And not
just sprawled out across the ground like they were sleeping, maybe dreaming.”
So vehemently did she shake her head that hairpins rattled to the floor. Her
unkempt tresses whipped the air. “Not just dead, but hacked to pieces, blood
pooling around their bodies, the stink of it filling the air, their eyes still
open, still staring at the savages who’d murdered them.” Another step. “That’s
what horror is all about, Miss McIntyre, so don’t you come bawling to me about
how awful your life is and the shock you’ve suffered. You want my pity?”
Charlotte closed her eyes then sucked in a deep breath. “I got no pity left.
Not a bit of it. Now, get out and take your weeping with you.”